Bittersweet
Warning: Language, adult themes and ideas, and… situations. i'm sure you can fill the rest in.
Officially, it's not that long, but long enough to eat his stomach apart from the inside out. Unofficially, he thinks it just might have lasted forever, or at least from that first apathetic glance into cold fire, and into the rest of eternity, no matter how much it destroys him, his faith in himself.
"I- Orihime, I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back later."
"M'kay, Ichigo." She doesn't say, "Where are you going?" or "When will you be back?" or anything but quiet acceptance, and for that he's grateful. Even if it's wrong, he doesn't want to tell her, doesn't want to have to admit where he's going, even though saying her name wouldn't be an innate disaster. They've been friends since high school, all of them, so it isn't a crime, for him to want to see her. The part where he wants so much more than that is where things get sticky, and he doesn't want to speak her name, like that might make it real.
The kiss he plants on her temple is perfunctory - caring, but sterile, the kind of affection he might shower upon one of his beloved little sisters, without any passion, and she can feel that his mind is somewhere horribly not with her, but she just smiles up at him behind the deceptive curtain of orange hair spilling across her shoulder. "I love you," Orihime reminds her husband of two years, boyfriend since high school, and she prays the emotion won't bounce off him. But when Ichigo's permanent scowl seems to deepen, something in him turn reclusive, shift away not to look at her, she knows she's affected him, and she almost wishes she hadn't.
It's horrible enough to suspect, to watch him slip away more and more often, only for him to return looking… different. Perhaps smelling clean, once with his hair slightly wet. It absolutely hadn't been raining, and that, more than anything, starts the tears. Not that she ever lets him see, ever allows Ichigo to know she cries when he leaves the house, and she knows, just knows, where he's going. She doesn't know who, or why, or how, but she does know.
(No. That is a lie. She's certain on how, working on why, and can't narrow down who. But she refuses to admit that, even to herself.)
Kurosaki… Ichigo-kun… Smiling broadly, Orihime leaned forward with her chin planted firmly in her palm, staring across the room at her boyfriend of three months, seriously and studiously staring down into his open textbook, occasionally kicking Asano Keigo under the desk when he thought the other boy was being too perverted. Something fantastic just swirled around Kurosaki Ichigo, that intensity, integrity, and the adorable 'v' of a frown between his eyebrows, disguising the strong, kind man she fell in love with.
Despite her ideas and ideals, he didn't read near so seriously as Orihime assumed, after all, with the teacher out of the room, called to the office, who would pay attention to their studies? But, given the alternative, getting involved in a rather revolting conversation about sexual exploits, Ichigo picked his poison.
The chemistry text bored him to death, something about valence bonding to make the VSEPR theory viable, and even more molecular structures that, really, looked exactly the same as the original ones, but apparently were completely different because of the valence electrons. He didn't understand it, mostly because the theory and reasoning made no sense, or were badly explained, but at least no one else seemed to process the information.
Bored with perusal sans absorption of material, Ichigo's eyes roved around the classroom, scanning his fellow classmates with a critical eye; staunchly ignoring the high, female twittering and perpetually self-similar perverse conversation streaming from the boys nearby - this time focused on Mizuiro's perpetual sly capacity for picking up women in college, much too old for him, by virtue of cuteness. He'd never understood that line of thinking, considering that women weren't supposed to be into the pedophile thing, so he'd assume if they went for high school students, it would be the ones who looked and acted older. Oh well. Not like Ichigo really wanted to comprehend. No, he liked his friends, but not enough to have any interest in their sexual exploits.
Just as he'd concluded anyone sane sat across the classroom, and it wouldn't do any good to smack Keigo for his behavior – the brunette never changed – the door to the classroom clunked startlingly open. Their teacher entered first, oddly serious for such an easygoing person, and Ichigo might have suspected the principal chastised her for her laggardly ways and tendency to count everyone present when only the students she deemed 'bad' missed class, but that never usually made a dent.
However, the next moment, his theories were proved completely off track, as the tiniest girl he'd ever seen (barring anyone under ten) clipped into the classroom, steps delicate and prim. Behind her, a normal-sized teenage male slouched in, his ridiculously red hair, irritable expression not unlike Ichigo's, and odd tribal tattoos instead of eyebrows drawing every eye in the room. The orange-head scanned him once, decided he dyed his hair, and lost interest. Overall, the female appeared the more captivating of the two, perhaps she was one of those ridiculous genius children, the ones who play piano perfectly at seven, and go into their junior year of high school at eleven. But… no, she had older proportions than his older sisters, and slight breasts shadowed her uniform, objects that both younger girls (thank god) were without. So just a midget. Ichigo snorted.
"Class, we have… Pay attention! Asano, keep your perverted fantasies to yourself! Anyway, we have some transfer students joining us from Seireitei Academy, so don't scare them off right away. This is Rukia Kuchiki and Renji Abarai, and they'll be in this class for the next year and a half, so get to know them, or your next assigned group project might be really awkward." Turning to the two transfers and utterly switching tack, she pointed towards the two vacant seats in the room, one close to the front, directly beside Ichigo, and another at the far back of the classroom. "The bad kids sit there, so you can have their spots because I don't expect them to join us anytime soon."
Almost as if by unspoken agreement, the black-haired Rukia picked her way past the scattered school bags to practically curtsey into the seat beside Ichigo, and Renji slouched toward the back, tossing himself into the chair. He didn't particularly mean to, but he looked over at her, the midget even tinier up close. Coincidentally, she happened to be glancing his way at the same time, and Ichigo received the full blast of eyes so blue they bordered on purple, the color of glacial sin. At the time, nothing began, though he did wonder, what's wrong with her? But the teacher slammed her palm down on the desk, and ordered them to turn to page two-eighty-one in the textbook, effectively derailing Ichigo from considering midgets, and the behavior thereof.
Across the classroom, Orihime just smiled. Wouldn't it be nice if she could be friends with the new girl?
Running a disquieted hand through his hair, Ichigo steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind him as the orange stands spring back up. He never planned to be two years married to Orihime at twenty-six – hell, he never even anticipated marrying Orihime at all. It had been an idea as a teenager, a potential in the back of his mind, never fully acknowledged for the simple fact that it was just an idea, nothing serious – but he certainly never anticipated both marrying the orange-haired woman and then embarking on a six month affair, an addictive tryst he doesn't think he could escape even if he ever began to want to.
Ichigo thinks she knows. He's given excuses, tried to cover it up, because he doesn't want to be the one to say it, but there is only so much that can be done. It's unintentional, but he realizes he's been emotionally distancing himself from Orihime, caring for her with that protective, condescending emotion he bestows on his sisters. He loves her, but he's in love with Rukia, and that's where all the trouble ferments, because he's not allowed to love a girl he's not married to, and certainly not the way her loves Rukia. They share this horrible passion, impassible affection in even the most ridiculous things. He's puddle-jumped with her and held her, bare and vulnerable, to his chest.
And he's married to Orihime. Bubbly, happy, not-her Orihime. In retrospect, he doesn't know why he asked that question, why he didn't panic and flee, why he couldn't understand what it meant, to watch the tiny, black-haired bridesmaid at the wedding more than he paid attention to the bride. For some reason, only hindsight ever scores twenty out of twenty.
"Ichigo!"
She's right there. Perfect white skin and intangibly gorgeous eyes looking right into him, through him, seeing all his sins and not trying to look away. With just one look, she soaks him up and spits him back out, full of her presence and indescribably warm. "Rukia."
He doesn't even notice that his steps speed up as he approaches her, leaning casually against the back of a bench, skirt of her dress blowing around her slender legs in the unseasonably warm September afternoon. The last few strides, she meets him halfway, and the orange haired man leans down to enfold her in his arms, spinning the small frame around like he's a teenager, because, really, they're not so far away from that place in life, and he can get away with it if no one around knows he's married.
Audacious, and a bit carefree in a way she normally isn't, Rukia reaches up in her lover's embrace, pressing her lips to his. Instinctively, Ichigo cradles her more securely in his arms, lifting the little woman right off the ground so he doesn't have to bend so far to kiss her. Ichigo can feel her anxiety in the exchange, an intoxicating blend of desire and sadness that that inexplicable sense of Rukia with the habit of consuming him, when he ought to be faithful, good, and can't ever manage it. In return, he transmits the guilt and overwhelming affection for her.
They separate a bit more blurry, less sharp and focused now that their senses are heightened with respect to each other, blocking out the rest of the world. Ichigo sets her down, not bothering with worrying about gentleness. Rukia can take it. She's resilient, impermeable, and though he worries incessantly about her, he also doesn't, because he trusts her to handle the world. "I think you should wear platform shoes." A smile finds it's way onto his face, so Rukia works an indignant pout onto hers, just to balance him out.
She doesn't even need to try. She's my missing half just by existing.
Rukia smacks him in the stomach. "It's still calling me short even if you only insinuate it, you know!"
Smirking down into universe eyes, Ichigo crosses his arms across his chest, resisting the urge to just pick her up and carry her, as funny as that would be. "Feeling defensive, Rukia? I didn't say anything about you being short, or a midget, or undersized, or tiny…" she smacks him again, just to say she got the point. "All I meant was that it's not very comfortable, having to constantly bend down so far to kiss you, considering people complain when I pick you up… Not that it's very difficult."
"Do you like when I hit you, or something, fool?" When Rukia looks at him, he can just tell she's making trouble, because that's what she does.
"No."
"It's not nice to lie." For a moment, that doesn't sink in, then they both look away, just briefly, because she realizes what she said, and he's dragged back to Orihime, the woman he's supposed to be in love with, at that apartment he's supposed to call home. Those are the right answers, not the little, black-haired woman, but everything in him rejects the idea of letting Rukia go.
"Don't worry about it." He leans across her and draws her to him again, pressing his face to the top of her head. "You're right, so don't think about it." She shouldn't, they made their peace six months ago, when this impossible tryst began, and he wants her to know, no matter how wrong, any guilt is his, and his alone, to bear. After all, Rukia makes her own choices, her own pain, and he carries his personal missteps.
The towel wrapped loosely around her head already hung half off when she stepped out of the bathroom, the steam and subtle scent of vanilla preceding her. From his spot in the bed, her bed, Ichigo lay on his side, half-staring at her graceful form.
"I'm married."
She paused, hands midway in the process of toweling her hair off just enough not to drip on her floor. Slowly, Rukia lowered her pale arms, and sauntered over to the end of the bed, gripping it and leaning over, almost casually. "I know."
Ichigo pushed himself into a sitting position, a light sheen of sweat and sex still coating his skin. His customary scowl, oddly vacant in the soft glow of Rukia, slipped back into place, taking a tenacious grip on his mouth. "To Orihime."
For a moment, she just watched him, and then swung up onto the rumpled blankets, falling across them to stare up at the ceiling. "What do you want me to say, Ichigo? I've known her as long as I've known you. I know."
Thoughtlessly, he flopped back down beside her and caught Rukia across the hip, drawing her into his chest. "And… Don't you have a problem with that? Doesn't that disturb you?"
"Yes," she sighed, "and yes. But it's not as though it surprises me any. Ichigo, I was there. I watched you exchange rings, leave together. I watched her hold onto your arm so solidly it seemed she might ever let go, and I listened as she gusted about you, about all the perfections I'd never really seen in you. I watched you smile at her but not really look at her, and I wondered what the hell you were doing, because from what I knew, marriage isn't supposed to hurt. But I held my tongue, because I knew I was probably biased." She pushed away, the heat of him and the splay of his hand on her hipbone a distraction. Full, eloquent sentences trailed off into so much incoherent breath. "I suppose the real question here is do you have a problem with this? Do you want to step out, back off, call it a mistake?"
Something in Ichigo's gut twisted at the idea, at the realization that he could just walk away and say it never happened, and the sudden knowledge that he'd regret that more than the alternative. "Yes," he replied, slowly, "and no."
Her smile held an almost seraphic serenity. "Then we shouldn't do this. I won't mind if you don't, but if it'll eat you apart, it's absolutely not worth it."
Immediately, Ichigo disagreed. "No. There's always going to be that negativity, but we're both consenting adults. I can't promise you I'll stay perfect…"
"That's okay, you never were." And he knew he was really in love with her, because she was so self-assured, and knew him perfectly, precisely ensnaring his heart in spite of, or perhaps because of, both of their flaws.
"But I promise not to regret it."
"Then I have no reason to, either." Rukia planted a kiss on his cheek, refusing to allow the dark-eyed man to see past her defenses, to the part in the back of her mind that clamored of her friendship with Orihime, and so her pretended not to know. "You should probably get home…"
"Yeah." Ichigo dressed in silence, and Rukia escorted him to the door, still unclothed.
"Remember, Ichigo, we decided. No regrets."
He bent down to kiss her, skillfully obscuring her body from anyone who might walk by. "I know, midget. You're not my mother."
"Well," Rukia smirked, already closing the door. "That would be uncomfortable, wouldn't it? You know, I always thought you preferred Shakespeare to Sophocles."
"Have you eaten yet, midget?"
"No. I assume you haven't, either."
Ichigo scowls, and bonks her on the head. "And why would you think that?"
Simpering up at him, Rukia puts on her best actress face, which absolutely sucks. "Well, Kurosaki-kun, since, despite poor Yuzu's best efforts, your culinary skills are sadly underdeveloped, and a dog would turn down means your spouse concocts, I assumed palatable food in your house must be a rare commodity often produced by the talent of the microwave."
"It's not like you can cook any better," he accuses, taking her hand and dragging her towards his car, though she follows willingly. "Come on, I dare you to try to make better food than I can."
"Hmph." Just to be irritating, she jumps up and clings to his back, though her slight weight barely fazes him. "What are the criteria?"
With a slight shift in stride, he hoists her more securely up, supporting the thighs wrapped around his waist with his hands. "One point for every palatable thing cooked, two points for making something decent, minus one point for disgusting food, and minus two points for burning something like salad… Or cereal…"
"Or water," Rukia offers, reaching forward to cover his eyes when he jostles her.
"Didn't you pay attention in Chemistry? Water can't burn, it just evaporates." Slightly alarmingly, Ichigo continues walking with his vision blocked, a testament to how much he enjoys mind-screwing Rukia, and how much he trusts her.
She removes a hand to cuff him across the ear. "I joined the class halfway through the year, fool!"
"And still got some of the best marks in the class!"
"You suck."
"Yeah, yeah."
They wind up bent over a set of kitchen appliances, Rukia a perfect fit in Ichigo's chest, as he can just reach over her to use whatever he needs in their joint effort to make cookies, just for the hell of it. Though the refuse, wet and gloppy, and colorful, and some of it slightly charred, sprawls around the kitchen, they actually managed to concoct edible ramen, though it took cooperation, as getting into fights proved too fun to be conductive to cooking. Afterward, Rukia insisted on cookies, because they "make good projectiles, and taste good".
Ichigo doesn't complain about his tiny lover's oddities, because he doesn't intend to clean up if she tosses food around her house, and he enjoys the position of both power and contact above her. "Rukia, what the hell is that supposed to be?"
"It's a Chappy cookie! And before you ask, like every other time I make Chappy shaped or themed food, no, I won't feel guilty for biting it's head off."
"You're lying."
"Am not! And you shouldn't accuse a girl of that anyway, you're really ill-behaved towards girls, Strawberry! Don't you have any idea how you're supposed to treat us? Like precious, delicate flowers, that's how!" Rukia jabs her elbow at his stomach, moving to shove the oddly-shaped clumps of batter into the oven.
In response, Ichigo moves away from her, silently acknowledging the truth of her words. For a while, he considered himself a good person. But realizing, a year and a half into his marriage to his high school girlfriend for whom he felt like he might towards his sisters, then understanding that he only married her because he couldn't handle being in love with the woman he ended up having an affair with anyway… Well, it tended to make a person reconsider their own objective morality. "No."
"Sociopath," she accuses, laughing. "Should I watch my back whenever you're around, now?"
"Like you could pay attention that long."
"Excuse me?" Rukia crosses her arms across her chest, but her indignation is short lived, as Ichigo slips up behind her, wrapping his arms solidly beneath Rukia's, cradling her against his chest, and breathing, warm and solid and male, against her neck.
"Hey…" He kisses along the soft, pale column of skin, enjoying Rukia's breaths. "Still focused?"
"Mmm… No fair," she murmurs back, leaning, almost unwillingly, into the breadth of her lover's chest, soaking up his strength like the greediest of sponges.
Ichigo grins into her skin, still kissing, muttering, enjoying the feeling of her slight surrender, the kind he doesn't get very often without much effort. Rukia keeps her guard too high for that, too frightened to just allow him to be in control and trust him not to hurt her. So he values it all the more when she's frail, even a bit. "Completely fair. You shouldn't have made a challenge you couldn't live up to." His hand clenches in the loose fabric at the base of her shirt, and she reluctantly pulls away.
"I do not want to burn my cookies."
Brown eyes stare incredulously, but the infinite gaze shot back at them is unmoving. Rukia even crosses her arms for effect, though she knows it makes Ichigo more disposed to just pick her up and do whatever he wants, because he likes getting his way when she throws a fit. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"
She snorts, delicately. "Well, unless you're lying blatantly, though I wouldn't put it past you, it's not as though we have no time to spend together."
"But… still." Ichigo protests for the barest of moments, and then gives it up, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rolling his eyes flamboyantly. After all, he knows better than to argue with Rukia when she's determined to be stubborn about something stupid and completely meaningless. She enjoys it too much, almost as much as she likes his frustration, to ever give that joy up just for Ichigo's temporary gratification. The midget's far too clever for her own good, he's found, and she knows that if she just sticks to her guns and demands whatever it is she wants, eventually they'll both end up happy, no matter how much he complains. "You're putting your cookies over me?"
"Yes, if you want to think about it in such a narrow way," Rukia retorts over her shoulder, sighing at him forcibly. "Men. Only think with your egos instead of your brains."
"Midgets," he shoots back, smirking at her from beneath his scowl. "Too short to ever get what they want on their own, so they have to resort to bad behavior to get it. They're really just like ugly children."
Rukia sticks her nose in the air. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
Rather contentedly, they spend the next fifteen minutes in a verbal spar that only ends when Rukia pitches a glob of wet, unused cookie dough as combined with a sponge, and the timer rings in the midst of Ichigo's vocal complaints.
"Ooh!" Completely distracted, Rukia turns to the oven, looking curiously in at the food she's made. "Ichigo, get them out."
"Yes, your highness." He groans, and grabs a mitt, resolving that anyone who ever sees him catering so obediently to Rukia's foolish whims will die a painful and sudden death. "Do I still have shirts laying around here, or have you appropriated them all for your nightgowns, since no one makes anything small enough to fit your tiny midget body?"
Apparently, this insult isn't as egregious as some, as Rukia only stomps on his foot for it. Admittedly, she does so very viciously, and with a look of contented success on her face, but still, not the worst she could do, considering they are in a kitchen. Specifically, a kitchen equipped with sharp and heavy objects. Ichigo wouldn't put it past her to toss a skillet in his general direction, even if she wouldn't precisely aim to hit him.
"Come on, fool," she hurries him, admittedly, completely focused on Ichigo, and not the sugary foods in his hand that she could be paying the majority of her attention to. "You wanted a change of shirt, right? I think there's one in the living room, and then we're going to the library."
"Really?" Ichigo's look is half suspicion, a fourth interest, and a fourth resignation. "Why?"
"Because I have a book I want to pick up, and these need to cool," she replies, offhandedly, smiling up at him. "Besides, it's funny when you come over with books because you keep checking them out from a library you don't live anywhere near."
Ichigo sighs, but moves to retrieve the approximately clean article of clothing anyway. "What was that doing in your living room?"
"I was wearing it last night," she tells him, sprawling across the couch as though she hasn't got a care in the world and staring up at Ichigo as he changes. "So I just took it off and left it there."
He glowers. "Right in front of the window?"
"No, fool!" Rukia tries to smack him, but he's out of reach and she doesn't feel he deserves a punishment badly enough for her to actually get up and administer it. "I just threw the shirt in front of the window."
Busy arguing, they don't notice the girl passing in front of the window, looking in curiously, because, after all, she does know the girl who lives there. And Rukia's spread out on the couch, looking behind her at Ichigo, who has a shirt over his face, either in the process of taking it off or putting it on. The girl doesn't wait around to see. She doesn't pause so that they can look up, and see there's a stranger looking through the window, or, worse, know who it is, but she flips out her cellphone and dials a number she could hit the buttons for blind.
"I told you he would." But there's no triumph in her voice, only dull resignation, anger, even, though she contains it for the sake of the other. And when she hears the questions, so innocent, confused and searching for the truth, it only serves to fuel her anger, because he's a damn asshole, and she wants to tell him. Preferably with a fist to the face. She's not triumphant, not pleased, because she managed to predict it, who would want to know something like this ahead of time? Not her. She wishes it never happened, wishes she couldn't see the looks and the chemistry and the something between Ichigo and Rukia, even then. She wishes she didn't have to be the one to tell Orihime, because he's obviously not going to. But she is, and it's better to hurt her friend than to keep her in the dark, she thinks. Besides, it's almost like déjà vu.
For the third time that day, Ichigo looked over his shoulder, for the source of malevolent energy he kept feeling, somehow, behind him, like someone wanted to burn a hole in his skull. But every time he looked, he saw only the girls he knew, Rukia, Tatsuki, and some others Orihime was friends with, who he didn't really have a reason to remember, but who were really more paying attention to the ginger haired girl. And every time, it took him a bit too long to face back front, to drag his eyes away from Rukia, but he told himself it was just nerves, she looked pretty, pretty enough, at least, and he knew her family situation wasn't the greatest at the moment, so he was concerned. For some reason, he bought it.
But behind Ichigo, Tatsuki glowered. She tried to be happy, she really did, and the expression lightened every time she saw the smile on Orihime's face, saw her friend practically glowing, only to sink back into malevolent place every time Ichigo looked over his shoulder. Why did he keep doing that? She couldn't answer her own question, and that bothered her. Couldn't identify why her best friend's husband-in-the-making kept glancing back, though when she saw where his gaze alit, something in her burned cold, painfully cold. Why Ichigo kept looking at Rukia, Tatsuki couldn't have said, precisely, but to her, it just felt bad. Wrong. Because he shouldn't be looking at anyone but Orihime. Not when he was getting married to her. He should be so focused he wouldn't have time to notice if a spaceship crashed into the chapel. And for some reason, he kept looking at Rukia.
She crossed her arms over her chest, even though she shouldn't, because it was in the middle of the ceremony. Oh well. Orihime was too engrossed with her new groom to notice, and if Ichigo saw, maybe he'd realize that his duty was to look front, not glance back at the bridesmaids. Much as she disliked it, that was really Renji's job, and he performed his duty with gusto. After all, who else would Tatsuki wear a dress for, even for a second, if not Orihime? So Ichigo better not mess this up, she promised herself, or she'd mess him up so badly he'd never walk again.
All the same, something stirred in the Karate champion's memory, something from their first year of college, lying upside down on her bed in the dorm, talking to Orihime.
"He's gonna be fucking her one day, you know that, right?" she'd spat, blunt as ever. She wouldn't admit it, but she'd been a bit drunk, a bit bitter from the end of one of her own relationships. And Renji didn't even take notice of her eyes following him, the interest she tried, but not too hard, to conceal, because she didn't need to put too much effort into it. After all, she knew, with absolute certainty, that Renji was in love with Rukia fucking Kuchiki, and at the moment, Tatsuki felt more than a bit jaded.
"Hmm?" Orihime looked up from her homework, slightly distractedly. This had been before they graduated, before they had lives, before either of them even entertained the possibility of her being married to Ichigo. Or… Maybe that wasn't true. Before Ichigo or Tatsuki thought of it, certainly, but Tatsuki knew that Orihime planned to be married to Ichigo from the moment, freshman year, when she'd murmured that she was in love with him. "Who's going to be sleeping with who, Tats?"
"You're damn precious boyfriend and Kuchiki. I guarantee, at some point, he's going to seriously fuck her. And not like fuck her over, like pin her to a bed and just do her." She'd rolled her eyes, angry, angry at the world, though that anger abated when she saw the shock and horror pressing at the edges of Orihime's face.
"Kurosaki-kun… Ichigo… Ichigo wouldn't do that," Orihime protested, sweet and shocked and somewhat injured. "He wouldn't just sleep with Rukia. She's my friend, and he's my boyfriend. Neither of them would do that, Tatsuki, that's horrible." She almost looked as though she was about to cry at the idea, one that never even occurred to her.
"Yeah…" Tatsuki got up and moved over to her friend, her comfort instincts on full blast. "Yeah, I'm sorry I said that, Orihime. I didn't mean it. I'm just a bit cranky. I know they wouldn't do that, kay? They're good people." But even as she said it, she rubbed the redhead's back, she remembered her private misgivings, the amount of tactile fighting the pair did, how when Ichigo was down, Rukia dragged him out, right in the middle of class, and he returned much more shaped up, how whenever she got cranky, a faux-fight could cheer her up. Tatsuki wanted to think it was nothing, even watching Ichigo glance back at Rukia, she wanted to tell herself she was just making it up, what a hypochondriac, but those fears, they'd been present then, and she sure as hell wasn't kicking them out now.
And even then, something in her wanted to grab Orihime's shoulders and shake her, just lightly, disrupt her just for a few moments out of her marital bliss to ask, "is this what you really want? Will you, can you, be happy with him? And more importantly, do you realize that he might leave you? Do you think he's going to leave you?" Of course, Orihime would say no, her bottom lip would quiver and it would be ruined for her, because the entire rest of the day, Tatsuki's words would haunt her. Tatsuki knew her friend tried to brush things like that off, tell herself it was nothing, and she was worrying too much, but the darker haired girl was more observant than she often got credit for, and she knew that Orihime might cry, if pushed too hard off the swing set. She knew her friend, and she knew that she couldn't ask her these questions on her wedding day, for fear… For fear…
But what Tatsuki refused to acknowledge, even then, that what she feared most of all was being right. That she'd hurt Orihime to the point where her friend couldn't self-repair in time, because what if she guessed right.
"Hey, move over."
"What, I thought I was a tiny midget," Rukia teases, cuddling more securely into Ichigo's embrace, sprawling across her bed, comfortably and warm and incredibly content, cradled between his legs and in his arms and against his chest. "Too heavy for the big bad Kurosaki?"
"Yes, now get off my spleen." He shoves at her, but he doesn't mean it, and they both know he'd begin complaining immediately if she actually moved, because he enjoys just having her body against him. He's got that nasty man-possession habit Rukia labels "territory marking", because he likes to physically demonstrate that she belongs to him. "Besides, you're getting in the way of my book."
Rukia giggles, behind her hand, because she's a Kuchiki, and Kuchiki's don't giggle, or make any type of undignified noise. "Your book's boring. If you want to read something, you can read my manga. It's much more interesting than… Whatever that is."
He smacks her across the head with it. "It's Shakespeare! Why are you so incredibly uncultured?"
"Me? You're the one who has such a problem identifying quality art," she complains, yanking on his arm rather roughly. "If that's not uncultured, I don't know what is."
"I haven't seen any art around this house in… Ever," he retorts childishly, which just earns him a wallop by way of Rukia's book.
"I'm going to go lay on the couch," she tells her boyfriend, rather primly, but with that edge of sarcasm, the faint hint of a challenge that he can never resist taking her up on. "If you have such a problem with me spending time on top of you."
Ichigo smirks, a slow grin spreading across his face as he looks at her, admittedly, still above the slight, if strong, frame of Much Ado About Nothing. "I don't recall ever saying that."
"Maybe not in so many words…" Rukia perches on top of the dresser, crossing her legs in front of her like a real lady, though if you asked Ichigo, or even her, for that matter, both would laugh and deny it fiercely. (Unless Rukia saw something for herself in admitting it.) "But I believe you told me I was 'crushing your spleen', which I think, pretty much amounts to an admission that you don't enjoy me on top of you and you want me to go away."
"Well," Ichigo concedes, looking back at his book as though the content of their conversation doesn't really interest him. "I do prefer the other way around, I'll admit, but no one ever said I don't like having you on top of me. Except when you crush my spleen, but that's not always a problem, is it?"
"Now…" Rukia sits down upon her dresser, her slight weight not even fazing the thing a bit, it barely registers such a tiny presence. Ichigo would remark upon this, but he'd rather remove Rukia's clothes than converse about them, so he holds his tongue. "What are you suggesting, Kurosaki-san?"
"Last name basis already, Rukia? A few hours can change so much, can't it?" He mocks her, finally putting down Shakespeare. After all, it is true that he owns the works, and there are other things he could occasionally read, but he enjoys informing Rukia that spending time with her is the best scenario for reading a comedy too much to give up that particular habit. "Trying to keep things professional?"
She snorts. "Oh, I think we crossed that line long ago, Kurosaki-san."
"Then why the last name basis, Kuchiki?" He returns. She knows, no matter how much he might ever possibly respect someone, the chances of him actually tacking an address onto the back of his or her name are still slight, as Ichigo just isn't someone who does station, so she's not offended.
"Because I don't appreciate your crass behavior." She sticks her nose in the air, making the mistake of closing her eyes for effect. When she opens them again, just a few seconds later, Ichigo's lifted her up over his shoulder – well, he is a caveman, it's just a male genetics thing – and tossed her across the bed as though he can't just communicate by speaking. "See, this is what I mean." Who cares if Rukia has the same ideas, she's still allowed to mock him plentifully. "You never use your words. I'd think even you would have gotten past kindergarten, Ichigo."
He scowls, but, to her credit, it's not the kind of scowl it could be. Sometimes, when he's not with her, his face just sinks down into lines of anger that couldn't be erased with the largest pencil in the world. "Just because you're not much taller than a kindergartener…"
Rukia would have a reply, she tells herself firmly, she would, if Ichigo weren't waging war on her senses by kissing along her pulse, his mouth a complete distraction from the words she wants to form, to toss at him with a victorious smirk, but it's incredibly difficult to think, for her at least, when Ichigo does his best to efface that particular mental facility by just kissing her like she's air. No matter how many times the little, dark-haired woman tells herself that she should be immune to the melting, the sense of fire that licks through her when Ichigo kisses her, when he touches her at all, or he just looks at her, the auburn of his eyes demanding without being commanding. If there's one thing Rukia hates, it's being treated like she can't think just because she has a vagina. Ichigo doesn't do that, and she appreciates it more than she tells him, because, according to her, he doesn't need a bigger head.
Hands and contact everywhere, somehow, and Ichigo isn't quite sure how, though he attributes a mixture of magic and science, both of their shirts end up cast about somewhere, to be retrieved at a later, and more coherent, time, and Rukia's pants tumble off the bed. For a reputed ice princess, her skin is warm under the touch of his hands, her breath equally hot against his chest, his neck, his mouth, and Ichigo practically wants to burrow underneath Rukia's skin, and live in her, live in the bright purple of her eyes staring at him and the soft white of her skin, such a contrast to his tan hands. But she gives as good as she gets, winding her legs through his and running her hands, fearless, without a shred of awkwardness or innocence, along his chest, through the planes of his stomach, teasing the edge of his jeans with her nails and wicked smile.
It's not like it's the first time they've slept together. But he doesn't tire of her restless fingers and hooking her legs over his shoulders, marveling just at her, because Rukia is who she is, pressing kisses into her collarbone, across her chest and memorizing her perfectly, taking her as his own, to never give up, come hell, high water, or possibly all of the above.
The first time Ichigo slept with Orihime, he worried the entire time. In fact, he had to fight himself to pay attention, because he was paying too much. He spent so much focus on her face, on searching for any sign of pain, that he didn't really feel anything. He just needed to keep himself gentle, not hurt her, not grab her wrists, not bruise her, because Ichigo just couldn't hurt anyone. It was never in his nature, and hurting someone he'd married would go completely against everything he believed. Because he'd never gone beyond some intense kissing with Orihime before – she'd wanted to wait until marriage, and he never had any objections to that, Ichigo knew himself, but he didn't know himself with her.
The orange-haired man knew one thing, at least, about his new bride, and it was that she was fragile. She got bruised when someone accidentally pushed her down in a race in high school, or even if he, as he had a few time, gripped her arm too hard, leaving a mark of his own hand against her skin. Ichigo hated himself for that, that he could damage someone he was supposed to protect at all costs, that he could see it hurt her and she wouldn't admit it, because she cared too much for him. That, Ichigo couldn't stand.
Hurting Orihime with his own carelessness was completely unacceptable, and Ichigo wouldn't allow himself to behave in such a base way. So when he slept with her, he did his utmost to be gentle. He focused completely on her, on not touching her too hard, on moderating himself, because Ichigo didn't do that naturally. Holding back wasn't his forte. So she moved against him delicately, her eyes screwed closed, and even the expression on her face soft, ephemeral, and Ichigo didn't want to hurt it. For him, the line between sex and rape could be crossed very easily, just because he knew, the entire time he as with her, that if he did anything, anything at all, to mark Orihime's soft skin, her unspoken, unyielding trust, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. Only monsters did things like that.
And when they did have sex – disturbingly infrequently, for a newly wed couple, Ichigo made certain, above anything, that he kept Orihime safe, because he could only think of how he'd actually thrown Tatsuki, the toughest girl he knew with the possible exception of Rukia, across the dojo, where she'd slammed quite happily into a wall. Of course, she hadn't been hurt, she was far too tough for that, but Ichigo knew that he needed to be careful with Orihime.
For some reason, that rule never applied to Rukia. Maybe it was because the first time they had sex, it began with her hitting him.
"I'm not sure if you're aware, Ichigo," Rukia spat, glaring angrily across at him, hunched down like a wildcat preparing to spring, injured and offended and not standing for his inane and ridiculously self-interested behavior. "But you're married. Married. Now, this may be news to you, but I assure you, those of us who are civilized and not the product of an upbringing cloistered in a rock cave thirty feet under the ground, it is not acceptable to kiss another woman if you're already married. Particularly if she's friends with your wife. Just in case you didn't know."
She reminded him of a panther, crouched dangerously, but also on the verge of licking her wounds, unsure as to whether she ought to continue her attack or settle down, just a bit, to tend to her own injuries, the reason she hissed and lashed out in the first place. "No, Rukia. I had no idea about such foreign social conventions. Thank you for enlightening me to something so obvious a toddler could have told me. I'm so glad for your insight." He advanced on her, strong and lithe, pushing into her space without the least thought for lack of invitation. Rukia might be graceful, beautiful, with her tiny body, but she still had to obey the rules of the universe and space, and in such confined quarters, she couldn't exactly escape Ichigo's forward stalk.
That was sort of the point. He gave her two options, knowing perfectly well that, with her pride, Rukia only considered one really viable. She could either fight or flee, and the dark haired woman would never flee. She respected herself, respected her bloodline far too much to let Ichigo cow her. "Glad to have informed you. So, out of curiosity, what do you think you're doing?"
Though snarling might be slightly too bestial, Ichigo almost did. Instead, he simply pounced, pressing Rukia back a little further, until her back slammed against the wall, and catching her wrists up, moving to kiss her again. Though the exchange was hot, insistent, furious, it was also a final option. He gave her an out, if she wanted to take it, but Rukia kissed back. Her legs snaked up around his waist, forcing Ichigo to support her, and she pressed her tongue against his lips, moving in to take control, albeit indirectly. This did not sit well with the so-called strawberry.
Further pressure against Rukia's back demanded that she yield, Ichigo's left hand taking advantage of his job to support her by slipping underneath her, sliding up her dress and across her back, examining the curve of Rukia's waist, the ridges of her hips, as her breath hitched at the contact, the warmth of his palm lighting evil fires across the length of her skin, in the pit of her stomach, only strengthened by the cold of the air that moved in after his hand moved tantalizingly on.
"Ass," the dark-eyed woman murmured against his lips, though she didn't make any other objections, tugging insistently at the edge of Ichigo's shirt until it fell over his head, exposing the musculature of his abdomen.
Sexual tension, previously unacknowledged and almost religiously ignored, lit up between them like dry tinder, consuming all rational thought, all of anything except the almost vicious give and take, unrelenting and accusatory, Rukia crushed thoughtlessly against a wall, but she refused to surrender. It wasn't until the next morning, when Ichigo saw her openly smirking at the light prints against her wrists, darker ones on her shoulders and ribs, that guilt slammed him like a truck, though she only admonished him shortly.
"Next time, could you break my blood vessels somewhere everyone won't see that I've got hickies?"
Ichigo never managed to restrain himself with Rukia. But he didn't let Orihime see the red lines on his back, either, because she would never break, not her, and she gave as good as she got.
Ichigo wakes up in the middle of the night, roused by nothing in particular, because there's nothing really around that would justify his eyes so suddenly opening. It's dark outside, he can already tell through the slats of Rukia's blinds, and from his quick, bleary glance at the alarm clock, it's something around four in the morning, a time Ichigo prefers to think of as 'disgusting early in the "morning"'. For a moment, he considers just leaving. Leaving Rukia to her sleep, to her peace.
True, it would be kind of a rude thing to do, to just wake up and leave her behind, though he's done it before. Ichigo looks across at the mirror, trying to focus at his own form in it, locating himself only by virtue of the stunning shade of his hair. Perhaps it does have his virtues, though he knows there's no chance in hell of him convincing Rukia that. It's sticking up in all directions, mussed in a combination of the "wild sex" look and the "I'm still asleep what the hell do you want" image. In Ichigo's opinion, that formed a bad combination, though judging by the ridiculous hairstyles of everyone who ever managed to be famous, it's some kind of good thing. Girls are all mentally impaired, though.
He glances down at the small body beside him. In the night, as always, Rukia curls up into her lover's side, the black tendrils of her hair strewn delicately, lovely, across her face, almost perfect in their arrangement around the pale of her features, the slight darkening of her eyelids, which conceal such piercing eyes Ichigo thinks he could get lost in them forever and never find his way out. Though that could just be his bias.
Sleep lends Rukia an innocence she eschews in real life, preferring a shrewd glance and regal bearing to come off to the world as though she has power. Which she does, but rather than flashing her name around like a credit card, she mastered the art of just looking at people to achieve the same effect. Stunned, almost worshipful, silence. Rukia tends to have that effect on people, and though she likes to pretend it's natural, Ichigo sees every air she puts on, almost like a costume, and he knows what she's doing. That's not to say he approves of it. He just understands, probably better than anyone, the delicate truth of Rukia Kuchiki, the kind she does her best to pretend doesn't exist, probably due to her brother's influence.
For some reason, Ichigo finds himself drawn in like a magnet. More and more, he has to spend the night, as though it's an almost physical pain to leave her, to kiss Rukia's forehead, get up, dress, and go home, saying that he was just out late, or telling Orihime he got back after she fell asleep. He has to shower, though, when he does that, and it just seems rude, trying to get up and use Rukia's shower just so he can leave her, as he'll have to anyway, come morning. Besides, she's like lodestone, attracting him magnetically.
Though Rukia bears the label 'ice princess', Ichigo always heats up when he presses close to her, because her skin is warm, soft and comforting against his own, and the entire bed, actually, feels warm, the soft dent of Rukia allowing him to sleep peacefully, even when she kicks the covers off because she's an ill-behaved monster whether waking or sleeping. "Night, midget," Ichigo murmurs.
To his surprise, she opens her eyes. "What time's it?" One thing few people know about Rukia Kuchiki is that she's not a morning person, and when she very first wakes up, though she manages to pull herself together remarkably quickly, she thinks on about the mental level of a slug. True, a particularly clever slug, but still, rather laggardly and in terms of the most basic of information.
"I think it's around four in the morning."
She groans. "Why on earth are you awake?"
Ichigo shrugs, his arm brushing against Rukia's though she's piled face down into her mattress, and he lays on his back. "I woke up?"
"Go back to sleep!" Rukia's arm snakes across Ichigo's chest, cleverly ensnaring him and pulling him over against her, his chest pressing slightly onto her back. He winds his arms around her tiny waist, pulling Rukia into himself as though he can use his body to cover her, and keep her for his own. She falls asleep, and he smiles into her neck, for once, perfectly contented.
Orihime stared, absolutely frantic, into her husband's face. "Ichigo! Oh, I'm so glad you're safe!" She threw herself at him, holding him desperately, the pale light of sunrise already enough to gild her hair with strands of gold, bringing out the yellow strands in the ginger. "Where were you?"
For a moment, he considered telling her what he'd done, Rukia, but something in him held him back. Ichigo knew, somewhere in himself that he really didn't want to admit existed, that it wasn't over by a long shot, and that he would go back to her. He hated himself for it, true, but that diminished nothing. The worst, most guilty part of it, though, was that while Ichigo didn't even really consider doing the honorable thing, Orihime had worried. Worried and waited for a man she married, who could never really give himself to her. And in light of that, Ichigo didn't know how he could not hate himself, how he could even think to smile and say, 'oh, what I did is okay, because of these reasons', when clearly, it wasn't okay. Not to sleep with Rukia, and not to conceal it, but, well. Apparently, Ichigo decided, he wasn't the man he thought he was.
"Sorry," he murmured, trying his hardest to meet her eyes, because everyone knows the basic signs of a liar, even children, but it proved difficult, more so than Ichigo expected, to lie so barefacedly to Orihime, as though he didn't even feel ashamed. "I told you I was going out to catch up with everyone - it would have been nice if you could come, seeing them again was great – and things got a little… out of hand, and I wasn't really in any fit state to come home, so I stayed over." Technically true. Things did get out of hand, out of control, snowballing into a huge, ineffable, not-quite mistake, and he wasn't in any fit state to return. After all, smelling of sex and completely focused on another woman is never the way to return to your spouse, under any circumstances.
The guilt, however, still rolled angrily up Ichigo's throat at the lightening of Orihime's countenance, her easy acceptance of his excuse, and her trusting sweetness, wrapping her arms around his neck when he leaned down to place a perfunctory kiss on her forehead, concealing, assuaging his culpability. Particularly because he could still taste Rukia, smell her vanilla clinging to his skin even after showering. Apparently, Orihime couldn't. Why would she? Innocent as she was, she'd probably never considered that he might commit adultery.
"Ichigo…" She smiled like the sun, and he found himself craving moonlight, soft and clinical and derisive. "I'm so glad you had fun seeing everyone again! I'd love to come next time, who was there?" Orihime practically skipped back to her chair, again situating herself in front of her absolutely unappealing-looking breakfast, which appeared to be some sort of waffle-ish item containing little green bits that Ichigo didn't want to identify, covered in red bean paste and bits of scrambled egg.
"Umm…" It took more effort than he liked to think back, and latch on to any part of the previous evening that wasn't made of Rukia, her slender limbs, pale skin, and the haunting cast of her eyes as she stared right at him. "Renji… Tatsuki… She said to say 'hi' to you, and I think she and Renji are dating now…"
"Oh!" Orihime beamed. "Really? She's been in love with him forever, but I never thought he'd get over Rukia enough to see that." She paused, fork suspended in midair, a thoughtful look on her face. "Were they ever dating?"
Something twisted sickly in Ichigo's stomach. "No," he responded, just a bit too quickly. To mask his distaste, he moved over to sit beside Orihime. "But Rukia was there. And Ishida, and Nemu, and Nel, and Ulquiorra, and Grimmjow, and Tia… And Keigo, though no one wanted him." He scowled determinedly. "They all said to tell you hi, and that you should come next time." Even Ulquiorra, much to the orange-haired man's surprise. He didn't much like Ulquiorra, and always assumed the darker male like Orihime, with her bubbly enthusiasm, even less. But nonetheless, as he left in Nel's wake – something Ichigo didn't question, as he cared too much for life and limb – Ulquiorra paused Ichigo in his conversation with Rukia, saying, "Tell the woman that the next of these meetings will be arranged for a time where she can attend," which on some level shocked Ichigo, but not too much. At the very least, Ulquiorra managed to preserve his customary syntax, even if the accompanying sentiment was almost terrifying in the departure from normality.
"Really? Oh, that's really nice of them." As ever, Orihime underestimated her value to the group, she tended to take too lightly her own worth in general. "You know…" She stood, clearing her plate to place it gently in the sink, apparently planning to clean it off later. "It's kind of funny, how our friends really seem like they found the person they were looking for because we were friends. Isn't that kind of amazing?"
The knife in Ichigo's stomach twisted a little more. "Well, not quite," he corrected. "Keigo still doesn't have a girlfriend, and probably never will, and Ishida met Nemu in college, in the science department's sewing club, or something incredibly girly."
"But still…" She beamed. "Me and you, Renji and Tatsuki, Grimmjow and Tia, that just leaves Keigo and Nel and Rukia and Ulquiorra, since Ishida has Nemu…" Orihime paused, an expression on her face that Ichigo had come to think of as the 'I really don't want to know what she's thinking but she's going to share anyway' expression. "But I think Nel might have a boyfriend outside of our circle. Do you think… Rukia and Ulquiorra…?"
Ichigo's internal organs developed latent epilepsy right then and there. "No. No, I do not. Nel and Ulquiorra would be more likely." Something inside his brain snickered, because Kurosaki Ichigo, badass, was having relationship talks like a gossiping girl, but he kicked that part into rather merciless submission, mostly, not that he'd admit it, to get the hell away from the image of Ulquiorra and Rukia in some sort of relationship. No, Rukia already found someone in their friend group. Just… she didn't find someone proper for her. Instead, she found him, and Ichigo found he wasn't strong enough to be happy with what he had.
"Morning, Princess." Thin streaks of light force their way through the slats in the blinds, tumbling across Ichigo's back, lighting his hair on fire, and bathing Rukia's lithe form, half-imprisoned under his body, in gold.
She blinks once in acknowledgement. She's been awake for almost half an hour now, but she didn't feel like waking Ichigo, and found that she couldn't escape from the prison of his body over hers. "You should probably get home."
Ichigo winces to hear that, her warm voice cracking the moments before they get up, where he gets to pretend he's not pretending that he doesn't have to leave. "Yeah." Reluctantly, he shoves himself off of her, managing to stand up and pull away only by a Heraclean effort of will. After a moment of hunting, he retrieves his pants and boxers, but before he can acquire his shirt, as well, Rukia seizes and dons it, sitting on the edge of the bed with an absolutely contented expression on her face.
"Rukia…" Ichigo complains. "I need that back."
"You have others here," she reminds him, drawing her knees up to her chin and looking sideways at her lover, black hair askew around her face and violet eyes clear. "Wear them."
She's got her brat on, and experience has taught Ichigo that if he tries to protest he gets nowhere, and while he can forcibly remove the shirt, it defers his time of departure by at least several hours. "Ugh, fine. Keep it." He stomps off through the apartment, not missing Rukia's cheery reply.
"I will!"
He groans, and forcibly informs himself that he's not cranky because he has to leave, he's used to that, but because she so enjoys appropriating his clothing. Well, his shirts, specifically. Ichigo finds another of his shirts in the kitchen cupboard of all places, but it smells clean, and he just needs to get dressed, and leave, maintain his self-control as much as possible. Strictly speaking, he doesn't really expect Orihime to be around when he gets back, she usually isn't, but that doesn't mean he can just wander around looking like he had sex.
By this point, neither of them care that much, and Ichigo uses Rukia's tooth and hair brushes without much worrying about it, said young woman leaning in the doorway, watching him carelessly, not bothering to actually prepare herself for morning. Something about being a modern-day princess, of sorts, and a Saturday morning never really compels Rukia to act like she wants to be "up and at 'em", when she very clearly prefers her bed.
"I'll… See you later, I guess," she offers quietly, when he stands in the doorway looking down at her, both of them caught between the terrible desire for him to just leave, get out like ripping off a plaster, so they don't have to face this moment of separation any longer than they have to, and the equally painful need to stay as long as possible, to stare down at each other and cling fiercely to not being alone. It's funny, in a really not amusing way, that the tenuous and impossible nature of their relationship makes them both cling more tightly, unwilling to let go, never let go.
"Yeah… I'll… I don't know, but I'll call you." For a moment, Ichigo feels right in the middle, pulled both directions, so he does the only thing he can, and scoops Rukia into his arms, holding her fiercely to his chest, the scent of her and the slight air of vanilla, crossed with that odd darkness of his own smell rising up to meet him. His arms are strong, crushing her to his chest, and he's crushing the air out of her lungs, but every time it feels like he isn't coming back, so she allows it, allows him to capture her lips.
Even bending down, with Rukia on her tiptoes, they kiss awkwardly, the height disparity always a problem, though it gives Ichigo an excuse for picking her up, something he pretends not to like. She does, too, and neither of them believe the other even a bit. Despite that discomfort, the heat of her body pressed flush against his and the intensity they share leaves them both winded, staring, almost childishly, as though searching for answers in the other's face.
Ichigo presses a soft kiss to Rukia's forehead, and her mouth opens, trying to form words, trying to tell him something. But the words catch in her throat, and he's already murmured "Bye" into her forehead, walked out, and, ever so gently, closed the door. Even with his footsteps moving away, she reaches out, trying to speak, but nothing comes out of her throat, not even a strangled hint of a high note. Her body against her, once again, Rukia gives in.
"I guess even I'm not depraved enough to tell him I love him when he's still married, completely and utterly, to someone else," Rukia mutters, sinking to the floor with her back still against the door, unwilling to support herself in the wake of Ichigo's departure. "Not while I'm still friends with his wife, though if she knew what we've been doing, would she still be friends with me?"
It's so wrong, so fucked up, because she doesn't understand how she can be comfortable sleeping with Ichigo while he's married to Orihime, but can't just open her mouth and tell him it's more than that, tell him she loves him, but she knows she can't, and every time she fails, something inside her breaks. Unconsciously, tears bud in Rukia's eyes, and, though she doesn't know it, Ichigo's only a few hundred feet away, sitting in his car and staring at the dashboard, shaking that same damn sorrow out of his own brain. He doesn't have time for it, until he gets a spine and tells Orihime, he has no right to regret his own pain, only the hurt he causes Rukia.
Half-crumpled on her living room floor beneath the door, Rukia touches her fingers to her lips, trying to retrace Ichigo's kiss, recapture the feeling of his lips so gently devouring her own, and finds that she can still taste him. He's there, in the house, because his clothes are strewn across the floor and his shirts live in her dressers, because her bed still smells like him, she knows, and because she can't get the taste that is certainly, irrevocably, Ichigo out of her mouth. She's kissed him a million times, and though they say that a lover's kiss is like honey, or sugar, or even clouds, the only taste on Rukia's lips is smoke and spice, because loving Ichigo isn't sweet, or even sour.
It's bitter. He's married, married to someone who is in no way her, and she knows that. Oh, does she know that. It eats at Rukia, laughs at her and taunts her and prevents her from sleeping when she's not curled into Ichigo's chest and pretending she's not just as culpable as he.
But at the same time, it's sweet, because he's picking her up and carrying her over puddles that she can easily get over on her own, and calling her a midget, and scowling, but giving in to her demands anyway, and smiling at her when he thinks she isn't paying attention.
Bittersweet, really, Rukia thinks, long nails still lingering against her lips, the absence of Ichigo still assaulting her every sense, because that's just the crux of it, no matter how often he comes back, there's always goodbye.
And maybe that's why they can't say 'I love you'.
A/N: i've been working on this for a few weeks, because i liked the idea of a HimeIchiRuki affair triangle, so this is what happened. There's a sequel-ish in the works somewhere, but don't really expect that any time soon.
In all honesty, i'm not sure what i think about this. It was meant to be 'T', but the themes got me, then the language, then the "adult situations". i don't really have a good barometer for how much is too much, with that, so after this i think i'm crawling back to my 'M' for violence, for a bit.
Thanks for reading, i hope you liked it, and i'd love to hear your thoughts!
(As ever, this does not interfere with the regular update schedule of PatK, expect it up tomorrow.)